Angst Cycle (i) — I’ve Always Had Steep Mountains

I’ve tried to dig a few tunnels
burrowing with words, not touch,
but honesty written on paper
with face to glacial face
with shock at invitation
with silence and later regrets
stops.

I’m trapped in betrayal’s valleys
old rock from long ago
when early emotional plates
which formed the map of my mind,
before the map had relaxed,
quaked with the fullness of horror
building the biggest of mountains
leaving no easy pass through.

The castle which houses my heart
is protected from winds of love
no breeze brings scents of elsewhere
just rain, and drizzle, and mud.
The senses may send out their beacon
like radio transmits the news,
but I cannot climb the mountain
or burrow a secret way through.